My Mom is a Hot Mom Ch. 01

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Growing up, I never thought my mom was hot.

My friends did. Tucker, one of my best friends, started using that word to describe her when we were sophomores in high school. One day, when he came over to my house, he saw my mom in a bikini sitting by the pool in the backyard. His jaw almost fell off his face. When we went inside the house, and we were sitting around doing nothing in my room, he kept saying, “Randy, your mom is so hot!” It annoyed me to hear him say it, because I didn’t like to think of her that way, and I didn’t want my friends to think or talk about her that way, either.

I told Tucker it annoyed me, but that didn’t stop him. On the contrary, it egged him on. It wasn’t just Tucker, either. Mason and Alex said the same thing, over and over and over again. Even though I didn’t think of her that way, I spent most of my high school years hearing that I was the guy with the hot mom. My house was the one that my friends always wanted to come over to. I think the main reason was that they wanted to see my mom.

No question about it, my mom was pretty. She was only 21 when I was born, so, as moms went, she was young, and she kept her figure trim and firm by lifting weights and doing yoga at the gym, running several times a week, and playing tennis. Mom, whose name was Inga, was tall and lean but shapely. She had athletic legs, sculpted and lightly muscled. I never asked her, but I guessed, from what I could see on the Internet as a reference point, that her bust size was in the neighborhood of a firm, perky C-cup. I knew that when she had been in high school she’d been voted homecoming princess, and it was easy to see why, with her long, wavy, darkish blond hair, full lips, and bottle-green eyes.

Because of my mom’s active and athletic lifestyle, my friends knew that if they hung around long enough at my house there was a good chance they’d see her coming or going in a little tennis skirt, or in running shorts and a tight, nylon top, or in form-fitting yoga pants. After a while, it felt like my friends were timing their arrival at my house to coincide with the best opportunity to catch my mom in a skimpy, sporty outfit.

But I never looked at my mom that way. To me, she always was just mom. And she was a great mom: attentive, loving, supportive, and kind. She had a job in the human resources department of a big company nearby, and she worked there four days a week, but she still found time to do all the usual mom things well: she cooked, she washed the laundry, she kept the house clean, among other things. I always thought my mom was the greatest mom in the world. Despite what my friends said, though, I never thought of her as hot.

Until I turned 19.

When I was 18 years old, and had just been graduated from high school, my parents suddenly separated because my dad cheated on my mom. Dad always had been a good dad to me, but it had been obvious for a while that something was wrong between my parents. Dad was away at the office a lot, and eventually he confessed to mom that he’d been having an affair with his 24-year old secretary. He wanted to leave mom, and he did, abruptly.

Fortunately, my parents were able to negotiate an amicable settlement, and the divorce was granted within 9 months of the separation without too much acrimony. By that time, I was 19 years old. I was enrolled at a local college, and I also worked part-time selling TVs and computers at the local Best Deal store. I’d always known my way around computers, phones, and other devices, and I also knew how to persuade people to do things, so it was a good job for me. I didn’t make enough to support myself and put myself through college completely, but it helped a lot to lighten the burden for mom and dad, and it gave me some discretionary income.

After the separation, dad moved out of the house and into an apartment that he shared with his girlfriend. I stayed in the house with mom. It was just the two of us. We lived in a one-story, ranch-style house in a suburban area on the fringe of a large city. My bedroom was on one end of the house; mom’s bedroom was on the other. It worked out well for both of us. I got a free room. Mom got someone to keep her company after the separation and to help take care of a house too big for one.

One of the appealing things about the house, for me, was that it was located near the edge of the neighborhood, which abutted an expanse of hills that remained undeveloped. The hills were interlaced with fire roads and dirt trails. I had inherited my mom’s fondness for running, so as often as I could I put on my running shoes, exited the house, and headed to the hills to run.

One afternoon, after I had finished my college classes and come home, I went for a run. It was a warm day in early September. It was warm enough that I decided to run without a shirt. I often ran without a shirt when the weather was warm enough; I had been doing so since being a member of my high school’s cross-country team. It wasn’t an exhibitionist bursa escort thing; it was just comfortable for me.

I hit the running trail and headed up a steep incline, wearing black nylon shorts, socks, and running shoes. I also wore a GPS watch that would track my time, pace, and distance. My cell phone was velcroed to my right bicep, allowing me to stream music through tiny headphones stuck to my ears. I’d cued up a playlist of songs by Slipknot, one of my favorite bands. I liked to run to the sound of hard, pulsing rock music.

After about twenty minutes my body was covered in sweat. I was running well, my limbs loose and strong. This was my favorite part of the run, the part where I was warmed up but not yet tired. The sun beat down on me in a cloudless sky, but the glare was no problem because of my sunglasses.

The trail on which I ran curved up the hill. I reached the crest with steady effort, and before me lay a smooth, flatter stretch, with some oak trees scattered around.

On the trail before me, I noticed a woman for the first time. She was running too, about 200 yards ahead of me. She was running more slowly than I was, but, still, she was running with grace and vigor. I picked up my pace, estimating I would catch up to her in a few minutes if I kept doing so. As I drew closer to her I saw her more clearly.

I confess I had a mild fetish for women in running outfits. As a former high school cross-country runner, I had been around runners of both sexes for a long time, and I had developed a keen eye for the way shorts and tops hugged and set off a woman’s limbs and curves. The woman ahead of me wore blue shorts and a white shirt. The shorts were quite short, with probably no more than a 3-inch inseam, and they fit her snugly, accentuating the length and leanness of her legs. As I drew closer to her from behind, I saw the contraction of her thigh and shin muscles with every step. She was a graceful runner. Not all runners are. Some runners plod. Others run with short, jerky steps. This woman’s stride was both fluid and feral, like that of an animal to whom running came naturally.

As I drew still closer to her, I saw her butt more closely. It was pert and round, like a ripe apple. Her hips, though not wide, nonetheless contrasted with the narrowness of her waist. Her little T-shirt didn’t fully cover her. As she ran, the bottom hem of her shirt moved up and down, momentarily exposing glimpses of the skin of her back just over the waistband of her little shorts.

Her blondish hair, gathered in a ponytail that poked out from the back of a white cap, flew and bobbed after her as she ran.

I couldn’t see her face, but from behind she was nice to look at, and the sight of her spurred me to run faster so I could catch up with her. I picked up my pace. I started rehearsing what I might say to her as I caught up to her. If the front of her looked anything like the back, I thought to myself, she was hot. The word “hot” escaped my lips in a breathy whisper as I ran to catch up with her.

Both of us ran for several minutes like that: her ahead of me, running slowly, and me, running faster and closing the distance between us. I drew closer and closer to her. So far, she had not turned around or noticed me.

When I was about 50 yards from her, I suddenly noticed something. It startled me so much that it almost stopped me cold.

The woman running in front of me was my mom.

At first, I couldn’t believe it. But it was true. I had been running after my mom, admiring her and even thinking of her as hot, and I hadn’t even realized it was her.

I had seen my mom in running outfits before, as she left the house. But I never had seen her running, out on the road, or on the trails. I hadn’t recognized her stride, either. Nor had I recognized this particular running outfit.

Although I almost stopped, I didn’t. Instead I kept pace with her. It didn’t look like she had noticed me yet. I was able to look at her, running on the trail ahead of me, while she didn’t even know I was there.

I just called my mom ‘hot,’ I thought to myself.

She was hot. I would never have guessed the woman running ahead of me was 40. The first sight of her had hit me with a wave of lust, and the wave lingered and washed over me even after I had recognized her. I was close enough to her now that I could see the cheeks of her butt clenching with every stride under tight-fitting shorts. I saw the thinness of her waist, and the V-shape of her lean but muscular back from waist to shoulders. I felt a twinge of guilt feeling this way. But I also felt the same thrill I got from looking at any sexy woman. It was the first time I had ever looked at my mom this way, and it was both embarrassing and exciting.

I realized it would be weird if I hung back too long running behind her, so I picked up my pace to catch up with her. It didn’t take me long.

When I was about 30 feet behind her, I knew she would be able to hear bursa escort bayan my steps and my breathing, so I called to her.

“Mom! Wait up!”

She slowed and stopped and turned around at the sound of my voice.

“Well, hey there, Randy,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were working this afternoon.”

She gave me a big smile, full of white teeth. Her eyes were not hidden behind sunglasses, as mine were. She stood half-way turned around toward me, giving me a view of her figure in profile, with her shoulders thrown back and her breasts high and firm, jutting nearly straight from her thin chest. As I closed the distance between us I noticed that although the shorts were cute the t-shirt was a little frayed and ratty looking. I was surprised for a moment that mom would go outdoors in something like that; she usually was careful with her appearance and dress.

“No work today,” I replied. “Just school. I finished at 1 so I came home to run. I didn’t expect to see you on the trail.”

She looked me up and down.

“I didn’t realize you liked to run without a shirt. You’re looking pretty fit.” She poked me in the stomach. “Impressive,” she added.

I wasn’t very muscular, but I was lean and I had good definition. I knew I could pull off the shirtless look, but it was funny to hear it from mom.

“Thanks, mom,” I said. “You’re looking pretty hot yourself.”

That word again. As soon as I said it, I regretted it. The word hung in the air and an awkward silence followed.

I stammered. “I just mean, you look really good. It’s good to see you take care of yourself.”

She looked at me with a sly smile and a raised eyebrow.

“But, mom,” I followed up. “That shirt. It’s seen better days. You need to get yourself some new running gear. Seriously.”

She pulled the bottom of the shirt out and away from her torso to run her thumb over a frayed edge. I got a glimpse of her taut belly. I felt a little “zing!” inside at the sight. It was a weird feeling.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. Then she let go of it and looked up.

“How about we stop talking about fashion and keep running,” she said. “Want to join me?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said. We resumed running, this time together.

Mom was in a chatty mood, and we talked steadily the next few miles about my schoolwork and about recent movies. We ran in a broad loop of about three miles, at the end of which we were back on the crest of the hill. The sun was getting low on the horizon, and it bathed the hill in a honeyed yellow hue. It was the start of the golden hour, the best time of day to take photographs, as I knew from my limited experience as a photographer. Mom and I stopped for a moment and looked ahead of us and down on our neighborhood below, at the bottom of the hill.

I pulled the cell phone out of the Velcro strap.

“Here, let me take a selfie of us. The light’s good,” I said.

I drew close to mom and wrapped my left arm around her shoulder. We were both sweaty, me especially so, so I held her lightly. I held the phone out with my right hand and snapped the photo.

I looked at mom with her face toward the setting sun and a scrubby oak tree behind her.

“I’ll take one of just you,” I said.

“Oh, please, Randy, don’t do that,” she said. “I’m a mess.”

“Well then, you’re a hot mess,” I said and grinned. She rolled her eyes.

“I insist,” I said.

Mom didn’t protest again. Instead, she pushed her shoulders back and thrust one leg out and in front of her. She cocked her hip a little and put her hands down just below her hips. Mom acted like she didn’t want her picture taken, but she knew how to pose. She smiled without opening her mouth and her eyes shined. Even after running several miles and working up a sweat, mom was a beauty.


“There, I’m done,” I said. “Thanks for indulging me.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Just promise me you’ll delete it if I look terrible.”

“That’s not possible,” I said. “Now let’s run.”

We ran down the hill trail together and back to the house. Before we went inside, mom said that we should do some stretching. I often skipped stretching after a run. I knew I shouldn’t skip it, but I figured I was young and limber and I could get away with it.

But mom insisted, and before I could protest she turned around and put her hands against the wall, brought one foot forward, and pushed her bottom out and away from the wall, in my direction.

I needed no more convincing.

We had gone around the side of the house to the backyard, where mom kept a key to the house under a pot. While mom was stretching against the wall, I put my hands against a patio post and stretched my calves. I wrestled with the desire to look at her behind, and I tried to focus on my stretching. But I didn’t succeed. Mom was turned the other way, giving me the chance to sneak a peek at her without her knowing. So, escort bursa I did. The first thing I noticed was the way her firm, round bottom stretched against the thin nylon of her short shorts. Each cheek was perfectly sculpted in blue. Mom’s stretching caused the shorts to ride higher on her bottom — high enough that I could see the inner lining of her running shorts peeking out, and under that I even could make out a sliver of the exposed skin of a butt cheek.

Mom’s legs, nicely tanned after a summer full of outdoor activities, stretched lean and long behind her. Mom lifted on her toes, and the motion accentuated her calf muscles. As I mentioned before, I have a lot of experience running with women, and I appreciate the sight of a fit woman. Mom was very fit.

She pushed away from the wall and started to turn toward me so I turned my own head away quickly and focused on my stretch. I didn’t want mom to see me ogling her. We spent a few more minutes like that, stretching, my thoughts jumbled and conflicted, and then mom grabbed the key and we went inside.

When we got in the house, we both went to the kitchen. I grabbed a Coke out of the refrigerator, and mom grabbed a bottled water. I popped the tab on my drink and started guzzling it immediately, but mom just held the bottled water up to her forehead with her eyes closed for a few moments.

The air in the house was cool, and it felt even cooler against skin lathered in sweat. The cool air had a noticeable impact on mom. Even under the sturdy fabric of her running bra, her nipples popped out noticeably against the frayed cotton of her shirt. Mom’s eyes still were closed as I looked at her. She carried all her weight on one leg, with the other leg bent forward. Her shirt rode up, exposing a band of skin on her tummy again. She looked sexy, I thought to myself, even as I simultaneously told myself I shouldn’t be thinking such things.

She opened her eyes and caught me looking at her, so I looked away quickly. It was bad enough that I was starting to look at my mom the way my friends had. It was even worse if she saw me doing it.

When I looked back at her she was checking out the shirt again.

“I guess this thing is a little ratty,” she said. “I could stand to spiff up my running wardrobe. What do you suggest?”

Mom didn’t know it, but she was not making it easy on me by talking about her clothing while standing in the sweaty running shorts and shirt.

“I don’t know, mom,” I said. “The running store nearby has everything. You should get something synthetic, though — not cotton. A technical shirt, or a tank top, or a jog bra.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t think this 40-year-old body is going running in just a jog bra. That might be a little much.”

“I’ve seen Judy Havens, Alex’s mom, running in just a jog bra,” I said. “She’s older than you are, and nowhere near as good looking.”

“Judy? Really? I haven’t seen that. I’m surprised. Wouldn’t you be embarrassed to see me running around in just a bra?”

“Embarrassed? No,” I said. “I see that all the time. It’s no big deal. You could pull it off a lot better than most women. But whatever. It’s up to you.”

I found the image in my mind of my mom running in tiny shorts and a running bra extremely compelling, but I didn’t want to act like it in front of her. That would be too strange.

“Well, thank you, I guess,” mom said. “I’ll run over to the store sometime over the next few days and get something.”

She finished her water and set it down.

“Now it’s shower time,” she said.

Thinking about mom in a jog bra reminded me that I needed a shower, too. I headed off to the bathroom on my end of the house, while mom headed off to hers.

Standing under the hot water streaming over my body a few minutes later, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mom in the kitchen, in her skimpy outfit and pert, erect nipples visible under the old shirt. I had never thought of my mom this way before, but now I couldn’t stop. Mom was hot. I couldn’t deny it. Those legs, lean and supple, and the way her calf muscle popped into relief when she stretched her legs and pointed her toes. The firm perkiness of her breasts under the tight, raggedy tee shirt.

I lathered my body with soap, and I ran my hand with the soap bar down between my legs to

wash off there. I ran my hand up and down my cock to wash it and the image of my mom in the jog bra popped up again. My cock thickened suddenly and noticeably and I ran my hand up and down its length a few more times, my mind focused on the picture of my bra-clad mom.

I became aware of what I was doing and stopped.

No, I thought. I am not going to jerk off to thoughts of my mom. I am not going to do that. That’s going too far. I’ve got to set some boundaries over this.

With that admonition in mind I hurried up and finished my shower, got out, and toweled off. I looked around the bathroom. I had forgotten to bring a change of clothes to put on. Worse, I knew there was nothing in my room because mom had just done the laundry and hadn’t put it away yet.

I wrapped the towel around my waist. The laundry room was near the kitchen, so I padded along the floor in my bare feet to retrieve something to wear.

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